


The Quene's Head

by TheImmortalKitty



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bars and Pubs, Blood, Discworld References, Meta, Short, Witches, and gave him a husband, i named the innkeeper, just really reallly really alcoholic, obviously, pints of scumble, possibly in the future, scumble is something like gingerbeer in my mind, the author should stop tagging, wytches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-05-29 02:42:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6355681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheImmortalKitty/pseuds/TheImmortalKitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by my favourite scene from Mort, little snippets about a little inn near Sto-Helit and it's wonderful variety of customers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ahh the Discworld. My original love, it's great to be writing stuff about you again.
> 
> Just a warning through, I'm not Terry Pratchett, not even close.

The Quene's Head gets quite a few, well, strange customers. The inn's small, the sign's old, it's hidden by the dark on the edge of the road to Sto Helit. The inside is large, the sign painted weekly and Borag just installed a new lamp fitting on the gate. 

A strange place, for strange people. 

Gentle-folk rarely stop here, not even for a glance at how 'country-folk' live. Farm hands line the benches, a weasel faced man is hunched by the fire, a local wizard pours ale from behind the bar. There's not much call for his sort of magic round here. Not his learned magic from old schools in big cities. Here the magic is part of the land, the earth gives back what it takes in kind. 

The inn is quiet tonight. The only sound is one of slurping, beer disappearing steadily down throats. No-one looks at the others faces, not even the wytches bairn - lying in a breadbasket next to the ale tankards - cries. The wood doesn't creak, the boards don't warp and bend. 

Nobody looks at Anybody. Nobody looks at the girl in the middle of the room. Nobody tugs at Anybody's elbow and nods at the door. On light feet they swiftly steal through it and out into the night.

With their movement, the inn came alive again, the regulars returning to their games of Shovel-up. The wails of the babe pierced the air and the laughter of the masses bounced of the walls. The innkeepers hand, however, stayed around the handle of the Blackthorn peacekeeper below the bar. "What'll be your choice miss?" He asked, cheerful grin slowly returning to his features, although it was not, perhaps, has welcoming as it could be. 

"I'll have a pint," the girl announced, "of scumble. Please." 

From behind the bar came a shuffling noise, and through the doorway that stood behind the innkeeper came a great hulking man, clad in leathers and furs. His thick hands told of hard labour, his arms crossed with red scars where hot coals had ran astray and burned the flesh. "Georg? Did I hear that right?"

The innkeeper reached behind him for reassurance, and found a calloused hand gripped his tight. "Ye Borag, you heard right. This lass would like a pint o scumble." 

The lass in question turned her head, thoughtful in manner. Her hair, a great mound of white and black, swirled like snakes, braiding and unbraiding and curling into new shapes.

"My father was very fond of a pint of scumble."


	2. Nanny Ogg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are hedgehogs and dancing vicars (breifly)

Nanny Ogg was singing about hedgehogs.

This in itself was not an irregular occurrence, it was her favourite song to sing when she had had a little too much to drink. Although she rarely managed to remember all the verses.

Currently she was standing on a slightly rickety table in a pub near Sto-Helit. What she was doing in Sto-Helit, as she had proudly told the whole pub earlier, was visiting 'our Shelly'.

'Our Shelly' had either since left or, far more likely, never arrived and that left Nanny in the predicament of having no-one to drink with. Naturally this lead to her drinking with, well, everyone.

She even had the vicar (a man who was prior to her arrival teetotal) dancing around with another young man, this one however not of the cloth.

Never let it be said that Nanny Ogg didn't know how to have a good time. But as she started verse 13, " and they all wore bonny blue hats or summthin, yadda da da, and little blue boots", a lone figure in the corner noisly slurped a cup of tea and sighed.

Esmeralda Weatherwax was decidedly _not_ having a good time. Bloody hedgehogs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta'd so sorry for any mistakes. Also sorry for the shortness. Enjoy.


End file.
